I’m not much of a writer, not anymore (maybe never was), but that doesn’t mean I don’t like to write. Because writing does something for me. It turns thoughts and emotions and feelings into words, into tangible things that I can see and touch and hear and feel in ways more than just that subjective experience of my consciousness. And I wish my words were beautiful and lovely, powerful enough to touch the hearts of others, soft enough to catch tears other than my own.
Because when the heart hurts the most, the words flow with the most ease. And I think that must be where the phrase tortured artist comes from. Because even though I am no artist, my own mind tortures and pushes and pulls from hurt to hurt until the only way I can stop and hear quiet is to let the swirling thoughts in my mind become words on a screen. So that’s what I do. And then I think, maybe someone out there will relate to you? Maybe someone will think your words are special and mean something, and then every effort becomes worth it.
And practice makes perfect, but it doesn’t perfect everything, no. Some things come with inborn talent: writing, music, dance, sports, things that flow from your body like magic that no one could ever hope to replicate. I don’t have any of those magical talents. I write, but who do I touch? I play music, but who do I entrance? I dance, but who do I mesmerize? The answer: me, myself, and I…and maybe someone else? But even if it’s only me, that’s okay. And that’s enough. Because I don’t need to show this magic to anyone but myself (as much as I hope it can help someone else). I’m learning to live with myself, and that’s great. That’s more than I ever had before.
And how did I get there? Well, how else? Words words words.